


Cold

by thecannabiskid



Category: Mr Robot, Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: M/M, im basically doing gods work rn, not my best work at all this is lacking so bad, there is nothing for this pairing, they fuck ur welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4460630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecannabiskid/pseuds/thecannabiskid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliot's coming down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished an older episode and I'm so disappointed at the lack of everything in this tag.  
> It isn't really beta'd. It's too early for this. I don't care about mistakes.  
> I don't know the characters speaking patterns as well as I should have I've literally just binged four or five episodes and had to write something.  
> There hasn't been a show this good since Wilfred, if I'm being real. Like damn. Fuck me the fuck up.  
> Enjoy or something ???

                He’s coming down. Hard. God he’s crashing, cold. He’s cold. The hotel sheets are drenched with his sweat. He’s alone. “They all left,” he swallows hard. God there’s a lump in his throat. He’s suffocating.  “They all left,” he can’t breathe. “I’m all al-alone, all alone,” and here it comes. That uncontrollable sadness. Hitting him like a freight train.

                “No you’re not,” he digs the palms of his hands against his cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere kiddo, we’re in this til the end.”

                “Need a hit,” Mr. Robot is sitting on the bed. “Just one.”              

                “No can do,” his hands can’t stop shaking. How does he get a _yes_. He’s leaning forward, fuck, the colors of the room run together, the room is a blur until he stops leaning. The colors lurch forward before returning to the furniture. Mr. Robot eyes him. He likes his glasses and God is he really going to do this. His hands are sweaty.

                He’s cupping the other mans face and he’s kissing him slow. God he’s going to do this. Is he gay? He spent a lot of time thinking about Tyrell. The curve of his mouth. His eyes are nice. “Just one,” his teeth are chattering, cold. He needs heat. God he needs heat. “Warm me up,” it’s begging. His tone. He can see the flicker in the others eyes. He just has to push. “Please,” it feels foreign on his tongue but it does the trick.

                He’s got two fingers in his mouth prodding his tongue. He hasn’t had fluids in…. what time is it, how many days have passed? He’s practically drooling. Is he going to fuck him here? He’s being pulled to the shower. When did his clothes come off? He’s shaking. “I got ya kiddo.” Comfort. Mr. Robot hasn’t left his side the whole time. Is this what love feels like? He doesn’t feel different. Itchy, maybe? He’s freezing. The water is hot against his back. He can’t shake the chill and he’s growing aware of the mouth on his, tongue licking his bottom lip and there’s warmth there.  It’s a flicker. He chases it.

                Mr. Robot cleans him. He stares at him, God he can’t stop shaking he just needs a hit. Maybe he really does have a problem. A serious problem. His chin is being tilted, hands run through his hair and he’s grabbing at Mr. Robot’s shoulders. “I got ya,” he murmurs. He’s got him. How does he get that yes?

                “Cold,” he gasps out, finger pressing against his entrance. Mr. Robot bites his jaw. God, there’s the warmth. “Don’t stop.” His voice is low. Mr. Robot doesn’t stop. Presses a finger into Elliot and nips along his jaw. He’s clammy. Fever breaking. He’s too out of it to realize. He presses another finger in.

                He’s gasping, can’t catch his breath. Can you develop asthma? The word is bright in his head, asthma, asthma, _asthma._ “Oh _God_ ,” he moans, snaps back slowly, water on his skin, twist of fingers, Mr. Robot is watching him. He can’t focus and there’s blinding pleasure spreading through his limbs. He’s very aware of how close they are, shifts on his feet and his cock brushes against Mr. Robot’s. Fuck. _Fuck._ “No mo-more,” there’s a third finger and an uncomfortable stretch, no more blinding pleasure. Just pressure.

                Mr. Robot moves in a blur, he’s out of the shower and Elliot has to blink several times to focus. “Get out.” His voice is grounding. He’s being pulled from the shower and dried with a towel and he’s painfully aware of his erection, aware of Mr. Robot’s as well. He is aware.

                Foil is being ripped, Elliot’s pressed up against the wall. It’s a tacky color. It hurts his eyes so he closes them. “Please,” he breathes, then there’s a press and God he’s warm. His hands are at his sides, presses his cheek hard against the wall. His hands shake and when Mr. Robot’s hands skirt over his sides the warmth follows. He needs him pressed against him, the cold is flooding back.

                “-iot,” Fuck. He wasn’t listening.  “Elliot,”

                “Hmm?”

                “Keep it down.” Was he speaking? Fuck. He was talking. “Elliot,” his voice is exasperated.

                “Move,” he manages. His face rubs hard against the wall with each thrust. It feels good. “Harder.” He can feel the hesitation. “Need it.” The next thrust knocks the air from his lungs. It’s good. The hand on his hip is comfortable. It’s nice. The noise that leaves his lips is guttural and he’s cumming on the wall. He’s warm. He’s too warm. Fuck. His skin is boiling. Mr. Robot fucks him through it, and when he’s completely wrung out he doesn’t stop.

                “Good,” he groans, and Elliot’s mind rattles. Good. _Good._ He’s being good. He can feel the slide of his cock, the way his hips stutter. Mr. Robot cums, he stills, presses against Elliot and he’s suffocating, God help him. He’s too hot.

                It lasts, the moment is drawn out and singed into his skin and when Mr. Robot pulls away the chills are back. He’s cold. Fuck.


End file.
